


Snack Cakes and Molotovs

by HappyFunBallXD



Series: Zombie Immunity AU [1]
Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Alternate Universe - Zombie Apocalypse, Gen, zombie immunity au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-19
Updated: 2015-01-19
Packaged: 2018-03-08 04:59:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3196199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HappyFunBallXD/pseuds/HappyFunBallXD
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>According to zombie movies, guys like Grif didn't make it very far. Or, the one where Grif picks up teammates at a gas station.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Snack Cakes and Molotovs

According to zombie movies, guys like Grif didn't make it very far.

Which was complete bullshit. Grif figured it was more about the look of movies rather than actual survivability. They only let the thin pretty people survive. Maybe they figured that if you weren't fit enough to run a marathon, you wouldn't be able to escape zombies. Also bullshit. Grif liked to think that he was doing particularly well. He was still alive, that was always a reward for a job well done.

The thing was, if they didn't see you, you didn't need to run. And if you were in a car, you could drive away quicker than any zombie could possibly shuffle. It had worked quite well for Grif so far. Eventually, he knew, there would be no more gas for the cars he picked up, but he'd think of something else when that time came.

So he wasn't the most fit survivor of the zombie apocalypse. He wasn't totally useless either. He didn't know much about camping, or how to beat a zombie back to death with another zombie's skull, but he'd watched enough movies to know what to do. The skull thing didn't seem physically possible anyway. And way too messy.

The first thing was to have a plan. Most people he knew didn't have one. So when the news first started reporting on the 'mysterious virus' that was keeping people from staying dead, he knew exactly what was up, while others were still talking about vaccinations over coffee. He was ready. And when the first one of his neighbors started stumbling down the street, blue veins spiderwebbing across his face and eyes glazed over with white, Grif packed what he could and got the hell out of town.

The only flaw in his plan seemed to be that it took a lot longer to drive from Texas to Alaska. He couldn't fly; even if the airports were still running flights, it was too risky to be contained with that many people. All there needed to be was one infected that hadn't quite turned yet, and you had a whole plane of zombie meat on your hands. But there were still cars around, and still gas left to fill them up. It wasn't as fast as flying, but it was safer. And a hell of a lot faster than walking. Because fuck walking.

Grif checked the gas level on the dash of his current stolen car, some dark red run-of-the-mill model that had been abandoned on the side of the road when his orange jeep had finally drove its last. It was getting low, and he'd just passed the signs for the exit. The highway was slower than it should be, littered with broken and abandoned cars, but it was quieter than the city roads, where the undead mobs were quickly cashing in on survivors. Still, better to get gas now than once it got darker and harder to see, so Grif turned off the highway toward the town and pulled up to the first gas station he came to.

He turned the car off, waiting a bit before he dared get out. One thing the zombie flicks got right was to make sure you were safe before getting out of a car. If there were mobs around, they'd be attracted to the noise of a car pulling in. He sat for a few minutes, just watching his surroundings. The streets, the gas station, the buildings around it, all of them deserted. Not even a plastic bag rustling in the wind. Finally, he grabbed the baseball bat he kept in the passenger seat, and popped the door open slowly.

Carefully, he slid out of the car, moving to the gas pump and hooking it to the car's gas tank as quietly as possible. Then he sneaked inside the gas station itself. Gripping the bat, he pushed open the door slowly, trying not to rattle the bells on top of it too much. A quick look around found it empty as well. Zombies were a lot of things, but they couldn't be quiet. They didn't have the brain function to worry about such things. If the random moaning didn't get your attention, the slow shuffling gait would. It was one of the useful things about the undead.

The gas station was silent, so Grif hopped up on the counter. He threw his legs over, shuffling down to the cashier side, intent to turn on the gas pump so he could get the fuel and go.

Instead he immediately found himself slammed to the hard tile of the floor, something metal and unyielding pressed against his shoulder blades.

“Fuck!” he hissed, trying to move his cheek from the tile to see what had him. He checked for zombies, and forgot to check for people. Zombies you could plan for, people were crazy and unpredictable.

The pressure at his back lessened for a moment, and a guy's voice spoke. “You're not infected.”

“No, I'm not fucking infected,” Grif huffed, “I'm a very pissed off, uninfected person who just wants to get gas in his car.” He paused. “And maybe some snack cakes.”

Above him, the person let out a snort. “Seems like a weird survival goal.”

“Hey man, there's a lot of cake rolls left in the world. It's my duty to give them the proper death they deserve.”

The weapon was removed from his back, and he flipped over to lay on the tile. Grif stared up catching the bright green eyes of his would-be attacker. A confused man stared back at him, pale, freckled and a mess of red hair and glasses. Grif offered a lazy grin.

“Don't suppose you happen to work here, huh?”

The man shook his head. “No. I figured there'd be water here.”

“Good guess,” Grif propped himself up on his arms. “Also, good for me, because I don't have to worry about you trying to beat the crap out of me for stealing gas.”

The guy tipped his head. “That sounds like you're speaking from personal experience.”

Grif shrugged. “Let's just say some people have weird priorities for the goddamn zombie apocalypse.”

“Like snack cakes?”

“Like trying to keep a business running.”

The redhead hummed in response. Grif got to his feet, moving to the cash register to unlock the gas pump. Once it started filling up his car outside, he rounded the counter again, picking up a plastic bag as he went.

“So what's your plan, man?” he spoke up after awhile, nonchalantly filling his bag with snacks.

“You can call me Simmons,” the man replied, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose.

Grif nodded in acknowledgment. “Grif.”

“What do you mean by plan?”

“Y'know, your zombie plan. You're still alive, so I'm assuming you have one.”

Simmons shrugged, stepping out from behind the counter. With his metal pipe in hand. “Not really. Mostly just keeping hidden and not dying.” He opened the cooler, taking out a few bottles of water. “What's yours?”

Grif grinned. “Alaska.”

“Alaska?”

“Zombies can't do cold. They've got no blood. They freeze up into zombiecicles before you're in any real danger.”

The redhead frowned. “That can't be true. Also they're not zombies. They're just infected.”

“Same thing. I know a zombie when I see it.”

Twisting the cap off his water, Simmons took a drink before scowling. “It's not the same thing at all. It's completely different.”

“Zombies, dude.”

“You're so full of shit.”

Grif just shrugged, the insult not bothering him in the slightest. He slid up to the cooler, grabbing as many energy drinks and water bottles that could fit in the already heavy bag. “At least I've got a plan.”

“Looks like your plan is to die of a heart attack before the infected can even get to you,” Simmons replied.

“Whatever gets you through the night, man,” Grif held up his bag with a grin.

Before the other could reply, a loud bang came from the back stockroom. Both men turned towards the back door, stilling instantly. There was a definite shuffle, mixed with a few thuds.

“Infected,” Simmons whispered.

“Zombies, yeah,” Grif started backing up toward the entrance. “Time to make like a tree and get the fuck outta here.”

“That isn't how you say it.”

Grif turned to roll his eyes at the other, only to stop, eyes widening instead. At the strange look, the redhead turned around. Pressed against the glass door was a face, staring at them both with white eyes and an open mouth. Bright veins traced the zombie's face, trailing down its neck, filtering out of jacket sleeves to where hands pressed against the door.

With a yelp, Simmons leaped back, almost crashing into Grif. Keeping a hold on his snack bag, Grif's free hand went to the other's arm, holding him steady. The zombie pushed the door open, bells clattering loudly as it stumbled towards them.

“What do we do?!” Simmons backed up toward the middle of the store. On the other end, the swinging door of the stockroom slammed against the wall, a few zombies shuffling in from that direction as well.

Grif tied the bag up by its handles, knotting it around the belt loop on his cargo shorts. He grabbed his discarded bat. “If we can get past the ones at the front, we can make a dash for the car.”

“If we lead them all to the coolers, we can wind around the shelves and get out.”

Nodding, Grif started toward the edge of the store, where the drink coolers hummed. Slowly, the zombies dragged closer, giving slow chase. Unfortunately, more came through the front door, filling all the aisles and effectively trapping them.

“That uh...that didn't work.” Grif gripped the bat, ready to swing when one got close enough.

“I noticed!” Looking around, the redhead started grabbing things from the shelves. “Just give me some time!”

Grif swung hard, knocking a zombie back into the mob with a sickening crack. He couldn't see Simmons behind him, but he hoped he knew what he was doing. Grif swung again, slamming a zombie into the rack of chips and knocking the display into the other advancing corpses. His eyes darted to the other side, swinging again with a yelp. The hand that had been reaching for Simmons now caught in the wire stand of snacks. “You'd better hurry the fuck up!”

“I'm working as quick as I can!” the other screeched, voice raising in panic.

There was a crash of broken glass, and a rip of some kind of fabric. Grif ignored it in favor of keeping his bat swinging. He was panting for breath by this time, arms sore from the effort he put into driving the bat into the mob.

Finally, Simmons stood up, clutching something to his chest. “Is there any way we could get to the roof?”

“Uh, I guess?” Grif slammed the bat down on a zombie's head, looking up. “It looks like the ceiling tiles just push out. Why?”

“Because we're not going to want to be caught in the blast of this thing,” the other replied, holding out a glass bottle. A strip of fabric was stuffed in the lid of it.

“Holy shit, is that what I think it is?”

The redhead grinned proudly. “Cover me while I clear this shelf off, we can use it to get up to the ceiling.”

Grif nodded, swinging with renewed vigor. Meanwhile, Simmons pushed the snacks and canned goods off the shelf, clearing it up so he could stand on the metal shelves. When he reached the top, he was able to push the crappy ceiling tile out of the way, using his arms to pull himself up.

“Okay, get up here!”

Grif knocked a few zombies back, giving a grimace. “You think I can get up there? I'm shorter than you and I've never done a pull up in my life!”

“You'd better start trying!” Simmons snapped, reaching a hand out.

With a hard sigh, Grif scrambled up the shelf, the metal complaining about his extra weight. When he reached the top, he was farther away from the top than Simmons had been, and even with the other's hand out, their fingers barely touched. The shelf creaked, and the shorter man panicked, making a jump to catch Simmons' hand. The redhead grabbed at him, catching him by the wrist and leaning back to pull the other up.

“This would be easier if you weren't such a fatass!” Simmons growled, feet planted against the metal frame of the ceiling for leverage.

“This would be easier if you shut the hell up and pull!” Grif snapped back, trying to lift himself up when his free hand finally reached the ledge. Between the pair of them, they eventually pulled Grif up into the ceiling, both a little out of breath with the effort.

The trapdoor to the roof was a little to their left. Grif pushed it open, pulling himself out onto the roof. Simmons waited until the other was out, before moving the tile beneath the door. He searched his pockets for a moment before cursing, popping his head out onto the roof.

“Hey, do you have a light?”

“You made a fucking Molotov, but forgot to bring a lighter?”

“What do you want from me, it was an emergency plan!”

Grif shook his head, fishing out a lighter from his pocket. “I want that back, it's the only one I've got!”

“It's just a stupid lighter,” Simmons grumbled, flicking it.

It took a few tries before he got a flame, then lit the fabric on his little explosive, tossing it down the ceiling into the cluster of infected below. He scrambled up onto the roof, pushing Grif away from the trapdoor hole. The glass broke on contact, sending the flame to the gas inside the bottle and exploding. A stray burst of flame puffed up from the trap door.

Simmons shoved the lighter to Grif's chest, moving past him to start climbing down the roof. “We'd better make some distance. If that fire makes it out to the gas pumps, we're gonna light up like a rocket.”

Grif didn't need to be told twice. The pair quickly scrambled down the roof, onto the dumpster and down to the parking lot. Grabbing Simmons by the sleeve, the shorter man all but dragged him to where his car was waiting, tank full. He yanked out the gas pump, shoving it back into place and closing the tank lid. He didn't want to leak gas everywhere and lead a fire path right to them.

By then, Simmons was in the passenger seat. Grif circled around, throwing himself in the car and starting it up. He slammed on the gas and the car sped off, away from the gas station.

They made it about a block away before the explosion filled up the rear view mirror behind them. Grif had to slow down, turning around to look.

When the fire dimmed down enough that they could no longer see it from the distance, Grif turned to Simmons, grinning excitedly. “That was so fucking cool.”

Simmons shrugged, a sheepish smile on his face. “Well, y'know.”

Grif's hands tapped on the wheel. “So... got anywhere else to be?”

“Not really.”

Brown eyes met green. “Wanna settle a bet about whether zombies survive in Alaska?”

Simmons laughed. “Sure. But you know, they're not zombies.”

“They're totally zombies!” Grif shot back. He took one hand off the wheel, tugging the plastic bag from his waist. With a huff, he pulled an energy drink from it, popping it open.

“I can't believe we almost died, and you managed to save your snacks.”

Taking a sip, the other let out a content noise. “Priorities, dude.”


End file.
